Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Again.”

Roz pulled themself to their feet and swayed back and forth, before reeling their arm back, their fist colliding with their sister’s nose. A satisfying ‘crunch’ echoed throughout the tent, and a ‘crunch’ followed when Viola landed backwards onto her elbow. She gasped, but bit down on her knuckle so she wouldn’t scream.

“Vi!” Roz exclaimed. They went to rush over to her, but were pulled back by their father, who had a smirk towards Roz. “Father, she’s-!”

“Fine.” He spat. “She is fine. She will be fine. But you, you were excellent.”

A shudder ran down Roz’s spine as he smirked, as if they had just told a joke. They could feel the blood coating their hand, already starting to dry and darken from red to maroon. They could do nothing but stare as Viola’s whole body gave a lurch when she forced herself to sit up. “Vi..”

“Pathetic.” The man let go of Roz’s arm and stomped over to Viola, looming over her. His entire shadow engulfed her in darkness, and when she met his eyes, his mud covered boot collided with her jaw. Viola crumbled like a tissue, curling up on herself, but not letting out a single sound. No whimper, no cry, not even a prayer for mercy.

And Roz could do nothing but watch.

They wanted to run up to him, grab him by the arm and force him away from their sister. Their heart pounded in their ears as they spotted the pool of blood growing around the side of Viola’s head. Had she hit her head when she collapsed onto the ground? It hardly mattered- their father wouldn’t let them yield unless there was a risk of death- and even that was debatable.

“You! Are! Pathetic!” He roared.

Roz and Viola’s father was a large and burly man, with a farmer's tan and the freckles to match.

His arms could only be compared to the size of tree trunks, his fists adorned with copper rings. Despite living in the middle of the desert, he wore a black trench coat with a red bandanna wrapped around his arm- one he had been wearing since he was a young man from the obvious wear and tear. Under his coat was a simple brown tunic, brown slacks with tears around the knees and calves, and work boots that hadn’t been cleaned since he had first slipped them on.

A pair of silver spectacles hung around his neck, and his fiery red hair that had already begun to gray was thrown into a ponytail over his shoulder. Just like his children, he had pointed ears, but he had a knick in his left ear from a battle he recounted with much merriment whenever he’d had one too many glasses of the finest Rivendell wine that he had stolen and aged over the years. He had the starting of a beard, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get it to grow past the end of his chin.

If you had just passed him on the streets of any of the kingdoms, your first guess was that he might have been a pirate, which, compared to what he actually was, would’ve been a compliment. He was well put together, seemed to know someone wherever he went, and could charm the pants out of any man or woman he wanted.

Nobody would have ever guessed what Pierce Scarlett did to his own kin behind closed doors.

“You are NEVER going to uphold our legacy if you can’t beat your YOUNGER sibling in a fight!” He bellowed.

Viola said nothing, covering her head with her hands. She had rolled over onto her stomach, and was allowing her father to kick at her ribs, her back, and her spine. All she could do was suck in a wince at every steel toed jab, hiding her seething anger in the dirt. She didn’t dare spit out the clump of sand and soil that had gotten into her mouth, just letting it stew between her teeth. She couldn’t swallow, in case she swallowed blood, or another tooth.

“Father, please!” Roz exclaimed.

Pierce turned to them, a fire burning in his violet eyes.

“I-” Roz floundered for their words, before gulping, and holding their head up high. “I-I want to go another round.” They said, keeping their tone steady. “I want to prove myself again.”

Pierce lowered the foot he had raised slowly back onto the ground.

“You are just like your mother, Roz.” He said, giving them a rare smile. The smile he reserved only when referring to the woman who had managed to capture his heart, before leaving with it again.

At Roz’s request, he stepped away from Viola.

“Get up.” Pierce said. He would’ve pulled her up by the hair if not for Roz’s request. “I said GET UP!”

Viola dug her fingernails into the ground, scratching against the pebbles and possibly crushing an innocent pill bug. She pulled her knees up and lifted her head until she was sat up.

Roz tried not to gasp at her condition.

Viola would definitely have to go to the infirmary to see the healer. Her nose was bent in two separate places, blood coating the lower half of her face. Not to mention the red coating her hairline. When her eyes fluttered open, her steely gaze planted on Roz, which made them take a step back.

At Pierce’s narrowed eyes, they quickly made it look like they were simply getting into a proper fighting stance. It was easy to disguise a sigh of relief as a focused huff.

Some days Roz didn’t know if it was better or worse to have their fathers favor.

“Viola Esme Scarlett. I won’t ask again. Get. Up.”

Viola spat out a tooth. It smacked against a rock and ricocheted across the tent, landing at the opposite side, right in front of the entrance. She could’ve just spit it out right in front of her, but no.

She had to prove a point.

She could push past the pain, no matter how intense.

Viola rose to her feet, her arms limp at her sides. She dug her heels into the dirt, first looking up at the tent, able to feel the rain beating against the animal skin. Her eyes rolled until they landed on Roz, her teeth bared like a wild beast.

“Begin.”

“DIE!” Viola screamed at the top of her lungs as she lunged at Roz, ready to dig her nails into their throat.

Only for Roz to grab her by the wrist, and flip her onto the ground.

They immediately gasped and let go of her wrist when they heard her head smack against the heel of their shoe. They fall onto their back, before sitting up, hands hovering over her. “Vi!” They felt tears pool in their eyes, and looked up at their father, expecting to see his anger rise.

Instead he was smiling.

“Well done,” Pierce said, as if his eldest daughter wasn’t bleeding out on the ground, unconscious and missing her tooth. He had his hands stuffed into his pockets, and thumbed around until he pulled out a thick cigar. He didn’t light it, he just let it rest against his lips as he leaned against one of the wooden poles holding the tent up. “You’ve improved.”

“Father, she needs the healer! Please, she’ll die!”

“Not if she’s strong. If she’s weak, then she’ll die. No skin off my back.”

Any objections Roz had to their father’s treatment were swallowed when they heard the way he spoke about Viola. Cold as the icy mountain tops of Rivendell, and hard as the redstone imported from the Grimlands.

“You’ve done well. Your mother would be proud.”

If their mother was proud of this, then Roz was glad she was buried in the dirt. They were glad she didn’t have to witness her children being turned into soldiers, their own father having them battle it out day after day, until only one of them stood.

“You look so much like her, you know.” He said. He moved from the pole and was only inches away from them, Viola’s unconscious body being the only thing between them. He reached out, not bothered at all by how Roz flinched, and twirled the streak of gray between his fingers. “You have her hair, and her eyes.”

Roz pushed down the urge to pull away. To spit in his face, heave their sister over their shoulder, and carry them both away from this wretched place. If they stole one of the horses, they should reach the Mezaelean markets by sunrise.

Instead, they just smiled. One perfectly rehearsed, perfectly crafted.

“Thank you, father. I wish I could have gotten to know her.”

A half truth.

His normally cruel smile softened at his edges, and for once, Roz found a brief glimpse of humanity. “She would have adored you.” He said. “As I did her.”

So, their father was capable of love.

Roz never would have thought, if not for these brief windows into his soul. When they could the dying ember of a man long gone. Maybe in another life they could’ve been a proper family. If they had enough money, or were born in a different kingdom, on a different server. Maybe if their mother was still alive.

But no.

Aria Scarlett died when she gave birth to Roz, fourteen years ago.

The man their father had once been was buried beside his betrothed.

“Father…” Roz started, hoping to catch him in a good mood. “Please. Please let me take her to the infirmary.”

Pierce sighed, before standing up, and looking down at Roz, cradling their sister’s head in their arms. “Alright.” He said. “Only because you won. This shall be your reward. I would have gone with a cake but-”

“Thank you, father.” They said.

They were able to heave Viola up like a scarecrow, and put her arm over their shoulder. Roz barely even gave their father a glance before carrying her out of the tent, and into the rain and hale. They yelped, as pellets the size of marbles bounced against their skull, which was already throbbing from when they had hit the tent earlier.

“C’mon Vi.” Roz muttered under their breath. “It’s not far, just hang on.”

This wasn’t the first time Roz has had to carry their big sister, and it almost certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“You two are going to be the death of me!”

The camp's only healer, Terrence, was a scrawny 20 something year old with a mop of curly blonde hair and eyes darker than charcoal. He was rarely seen without his moon shaped spectacles and a book in hand, which caused frequent injuries for himself when he would bump into anything that crossed his path. Up his arm was a tattoo of the flag of the kingdom he hailed from- having come all the way from The Gilded Hilenthia in search of somewhere where his tendencies for medical malpractice would be better…appreciated.

He wiped his hands on his apron for the millionth time as Roz laid Viola down on top of the cot. With how often she was in the infirmary, and for being the leader’s daughter, she got the cot with the most pillows, and the one that was closest to the window.

“Alright, let’s see the damage this time.” He said, pulling up a stool to sit down at her bedside. He took the stethoscope from around his neck, lifted her arm, and pressed the cool metal to her wrist, listening for her pulse.

Roz briefly wondered why he didn’t press it to her heart, but thought now wasn’t the time to ask questions like that.

“Is she going to be okay?” Roz asked, sitting on a cot across from Viola. This one wasn’t as nice, and was a bunk, but Roz liked climbing up high. Their legs dangled back and forth, their right sandal nearly slipping off their foot.

“As okay as she has been every time she’s been brought in.” He continued to examine her, before standing up and going over to his medicine cabinet. He unlocked the tin cabinet with a janky metal key, the rust from the hinges making the door open with a rickety creeeeak.

Inside the cabinet were rows and rows of potion bottles, each with their own color, consistency, and level of fizz. Terrance plucked one off the top shelf before reading the label, scrunching up his nose, and then putting it back.

“No, not that one.” He muttered, shaking his head. He squinted at the label. “Is this-? I can’t see a thing. Where are my glasses?”

“Around your neck!” Roz chirped.

Terrance looked down, and his face lit up, seeing his spectacles were indeed around his neck on a red string chain. “So it is!” He exclaimed in delight, propping his glasses up onto his face. “Thank you Roz, I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached to my neck!”

Roz giggled at that.

“Honestly, your father would've gotten rid of me sooner if I wasn’t such an asset.” He tuts, and shakes his head. “Not to mention your mother personally employed me.”

That made Roz perk up.

“Really?” They asked.

“Oh yes!” His eyes scanned across the cabinet, now able to more thoroughly read the labels thanks to his glasses. “Ms. Scarlett brought me into the camp! I thought your father was going to shoot me on sight when he saw me, but she told him of my skills.”

Roz leaned over the wooden railing of the bunk, hanging onto every word.

“It was the strangest thing- not in a rude way of course, but just fascinating. Your mother had this magnetic pull on him, I’ve never seen anything like it before. He might be the leader, but Ms. Scarlett was the one really in charge! If the boss was upset, all she had to do was look at him and he’d calm down. It was incredible.”

“Woah. I didn’t know my father was like that.”

Terrance’s face fell immediately.

“Her death changed everything.” He said. But then he noticed Roz’s expression cloud, and he tried to back pedal. “But-But that’s no fault of yours, Roz! She wasn’t in the best health to begin with.”

Roz didn’t say anything, just giving a nod.

Terrance gulped, and tried to put on a smile. He plucked a fizzing blue potion, giving it a swirl before plucking a roll of gauze from the top of his desk, and moving over to sit beside Viola. He uncorked the potion with a ‘pop’ as if it were a bottle of celebratory champagne, and began to pour it onto the bandages.

“Aren’t you supposed to drink potions?”

“Normally, yes, but with external wounds like this, it’s best to let it seep in through the skin.” He said, wrapping up Viola’s arm, which had a dark purple bruise shaped like a boot.

Roz had noticed something about Terrance. With how many times the two of them had been brought into the infirmary, he never asked the cause of his injuries. He never questioned them, or their father. He just did his job with sadness behind his eyes.

Most people in the camp were like that.

If Roz snuck extra helpings for Viola from the bonfire, nobody batted an eye, or questioned why they needed the extra chicken bones or tin cup of coffee. If Viola started walking with a limp, nobody pointed it out, but Roz did notice lingering stares that they couldn’t quite pinpoint- was it pity? Remorse? Anger? It was hard to tell with their people, but Roz only knew that Viola detested it.

“Who do you think you’re looking at!?” She’d snap, trying to make her voice as loud as her father’s, except hers would crack, making her flush as red as her hair. “I will not be disrespected!”

That was the difference between the two of them.

Viola tried to do whatever she could to earn Pierce’s attention, but the more like him she was, the more he pulled away.

Roz tried to distance themself from Pierce, to the point of giving up old hobbies the two had shared together. Archery, hunting, whittling. But the more they pulled away, the more attention he gave them, with the same old line of, ‘you’re becoming more like your mother every day.’

It made their skin crawl.

“Alright.” Terrance said, breaking them from their thoughts, as if he could sense the storm cloud brewing above their head. “I’ll keep her overnight. Why don’t you go get some shut eye? Big day tomorrow!”

Oh yeah.

Roz forgot.

Tomorrow, the king of Rivendell would be coming to bargain for citizens their father had been keeping hostage. Pierce would demand a hefty sum of riches, before he and his guards would jump the king, robbing him of his crown, his territory and his title.

And he wanted Roz to be there by his side when King Scott was defeated.

“Can I check your temperature real quick?” Terrance asked. “You’re looking a little pale.”

Roz nodded , climbing down from the top bunk. They sat down on the bottom, and stuck their tongue out to hold the thermometer in. They wrapped their tongue around the glass, hoping to warm it up, and then they wouldn’t have to attend.

When Terrance plucked it from their mouth. At first he made a ‘tut’ sound, and his eyes quickly darted to the side- as they often did when he lied. “Hm.” He said. “It seems that you’re a degree below a fever.”

“A fever?”

“Yes. I’d rather you be safe than sorry, so I’ll go tell the boss and tell him you’ll be sleeping here with your sister for the night. If it gets any higher, I’ll tell him at once, and he’ll have to find someone else to be by his side.”

As Terrance walked off, Roz swore they saw him wink at them.

It must have been their imagination.

But hey, they could hope for someone in their corner.

“Do you need anything before I pop out?” He asked, stuffing his hand into his apron pocket, like he was digging around for something.

“Oh, um, I’m good. Thanks Terrance.”

“Of course.” From the pocket of his coat, he pulled out a lollipop wrapped in plastic. He smiled, handing it to them. “It’s strawberry, hope that’s alright.”

Roz cracked a smile. “That’s perfect.”

The rain continued throughout the whole night.

When Terrance came back, he told Roz to get some rest, because their father was quite worried if they had gotten a fever so suddenly. So for the past few hours they had been laying with their arms folded behind their head, listening to the pitter patter of rain drops.

Their eyes traced over every seam of the tent, able to see where deer fur was connected to creeper fur, and where the creeper fur was hurriedly attached to leather. Not many at the camp knew how to sew, seeing hunting as a much more important skill, but those that did take the time to learn, or already knew, had the highest of respects. Clothes often got torn in battle, so knowing how to mend or create new clothes was vital.

Roz reached up, their fingers just barely reaching the seams. If they could just lean a little closer-

Creeeeak.

Their hand fell to their side and they turned their head, eyes widening.

“Vi!” They whisper- yell, sitting up. “You’re awake!”

Viola didn’t say anything. She just sat up with her back to the wall, brows knit and a scowl across her face. She ran a finger across her bandages, before swinging her legs over the bed to stand up.

“What’re you-”

“Shut UP.” Viola snapped, not even bothering to look at Roz. She gripped the edge of the cot with her hands, feet digging into the ground. Since this tent was for medicine, the floor wasn’t dirt, or a tarp, but instead solid stone that was polished and disinfected regularly. There was the odd blood stain here or there, but it had been there for so long, that no matter how hard anyone scrubbed, it stayed the same rusted, coppery red.

Roz flinched back. “I was just worried about you.”

“Yeah, you seemed real worried about me when you were beating me into the dirt.” Viola stood up with a wince, groaning when she stumbled back onto the cot, her head spinning as if she had just stepped off the tilt-a-whirl. “Just- Just shut up.”

“Let me help you-”

“No! You’ve done ENOUGH!”

Viola attempted to stand up again, her chest heaving with every struggling breath. Her ribs had been wrapped in the same bandages as her arms, the side of her head, and her stomach. A thick bandage was plastered across her nose, making her voice thick and wheezy. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d have to get a bone popped back in from the continuous defeats, and if this kept up, it wouldn’t be the last time either.

“I’m-” She struggled to gain her footing, gripping the metal frame of the cot. “I’M going to be by the boss’s side tomorrow. Not you. ME.”

The Boss. That’s what everyone else in camp called him.

Including his own daughter.

“You’re too hurt!”

“Fuck off!” Viola staggered towards the tent exit, a limp keeping her from sprinting out into the heavy rain and hail. She was already beginning to sweat, and started to pull off the bandages, leaving them in bandages on the ground.

Roz started to climb down the ladder. “Viola, stop!” They exclaimed, grabbing her wrist and attempting to pull her back. “You’re going to-!”

SMACK.

Roz felt the stinging hot pins and needles against their cheek as soon as Viola’s palm made contact with their face. The ring on her middle finger snagged at their skin, making a trickle of blood pinprick just below their eye. They stared, wide eyed, searching for some hint of remorse in Viola’s eyes.

There was silence between the two of them. Nothing was said, the distant rumble of thunder doing more than words ever could.

Viola turned on her heel, and left without a word.

Roz was left standing stunned, with a hand on their cheek.

A million and one thoughts ran through their head when they slowly sat down on the cot Viola had just left. The sheets were damp with the condensation from the potion, making the air smell like cough medicine and citrus. They pressed their thumb against the opposite cheek to stop the bleeding, but they could still smell it. It made them woozier than they already were, and yet they made no effort to lie down or get themself comfortable.

All Roz could think about was how Viola was going to get herself killed.

In fact, the entire camp was most likely at risk.

Roz had been against this idea from the very day that their father proposed it. King Scott was known to wield magic, and they only had two wizards in their ranks. The King was bound to bring an entourage; they had no chance against the elves of Rivendell, even if it was just the one. They had all heard the rumors of the young king, who was able to control the ice and snow that coated his kingdom.

Attacking an Emperor was just asking for trouble. Especially an Emperor with such powerful connections!

“Everyone knows King Scott is allied with The Codfather, The Ocean Queen, and The Copper King!” Roz had exclaimed at the meeting, having leapt to their feet from the pillow they were sitting on- having been beside Pierce and his general around a wooden kotatsu in his tent, surrounded by maps and metal figurines. A dagger pierced where Rivendell was inked out on the map. “We’re asking for a war! We’ll be obliterated!”

One of the generals- an older man with a scar shaped like an ‘X’ across his nose- snickered. “You don’t believe your father can take them?” He jeered, making their face turn red. Roz typically wasn’t one to speak out of turn!

They cleared their throat, looking at their father, and they expected judgment.

But he gestured out to them, wordlessly saying, ‘the floor is yours’.

With a deep breath, Roz continued.

“King Scott- we’ve all heard the rumors! He could wipe our camp off the map! He could kill us all in one go! We- We have to be-” Their hands were shaking, and they could feel themself being laughed at. Of course they were, they were just a kid, even if they were the kid of their leader.

Pierce gave them a sympathetic look, the same one any regular parent would give to a child trying to explain why they had to check under the bed for monsters. “Roz, you know better than to listen to rumors. Have some faith in your old man, alright?”

The generals around him had all laughed. They weren’t mocking like the first, but it still made Roz feel like they were being talked down to. Their cheeks burned red, and they sat back down, tucking their legs under them till they were criss-crossed.

That was weeks ago.

Now it was the night before, and Roz had forgotten between the monotony of their day-to-day chores, and their sister’s constant beatings. It had completely slipped their mind, and now everyone in camp was going to pay the price of Pierce’s hubris.

Roz had to do something.

Another rumble of thunder shook the ground as soon as they stood up, a flash of lightning illuminating the otherwise dim tent.

They picked up the golden candlestick from Terrance’s desk, wax already dripping onto the copper plate. They winced, feeling a droplet drip onto the pad of their thumb- the same one that had been holding the cut on their cheek. The white wax stained pink from the blood.

Roz held the candle up to look around for an umbrella, or at the very least a jacket. They spotted an over-sized army green coat that had been hanging on the edge of one of the shabbier cots, and pulled it on, pulling the hood up to cover their face. It swamped them, dropping down to their knobby ankles and had to be rolled around their wrists four times before Roz could see the tips of their fingers.

They slipped their shoes back on from where they were left at the entrance.

And then they were off.

As predicted, the candle went out as soon as it left the warmth and shelter of the infirmary tent, the flame quelled by the heavy onslaught of storm. Roz didn’t know what god had taken temperament that night, but it was doing no good for their cause. They muttered a curse, and then yelped when the rumbling thunder turned into a mighty roar.

“Sorry, sorry!” Roz exclaimed, nobody able to hear them over the winds.

Each step caused them to sink into the sand, the feeling of wet grains between their toes causing them to gag. Why did they have to wear sandals? They reached down and slipped them off of their feet, stuffing them into the pockets of the massive jacket. They jingled with the sound of loose gold coins, wadded up tissues, and pieces of candies that had gone from hard to tooth-breaking.

They sprinted across the sand, barely able to see through all the rain. Bits of hail thumped against their head, bouncing off of the nylon hood and back onto the ground, Roz having to jump around and be careful of slipping. A flash of lightning very briefly lit up their path, and they sighed in relief seeing they were close to their father’s tent.

The tent at the very back of the camp, up against the large cliff side, looked like a cabin to some, so the words ‘tent’ and ‘cabin’ became interchangeable. It had the wooden foundation of a cabin, but instead of doors there were flaps of felt, a beaded curtain being the only thing between their father and any intruders. Of course he always had four guards posted around nightly and daily, just to be on the safe side. Most in the camp would lay down their lives before letting anything happen to the boss, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

So that’s why it was so strange for Roz to not find any guards as they approached from the front.

Roz didn’t know if the roaring in their ears was the rumbling thunder around them, or the pounding of their own erratic heartbeat. All color had drained from their face, and they were sure that with their hair sticking to the sides of their cheeks, and the wind nipping at their skin, that they looked like a ghost, pale as death. If they weren’t sick before, they were certainly going to be sick later. Oh well, at least Terrance was good company.

The stair creaked under Roz’s weight and they winced, looking around to make sure no one had heard. The intense onslaught of wind, rain, and hail must’ve sent the guards back to their tents- at least that’s what Roz was rationalizing. That, or having guards around the hostages was more important for just this one, singular night.

Another creak.

Then another.

And then they were at the front of the tent.

There was no way of knocking, since their father rarely expected guests he wasn’t anticipating. Why have a doorbell or a knocker when the only surprise visitors you have were either shot on sight or tied up for questioning? It made sense most of the time, but it would’ve made Roz’s life a whole lot easier if there was just something- as a precaution.

But no, of course not.

Roz was left to take the plunge.

They opened the tent flap.

And they wished they hadn’t.

The first thing they smelled was blood.

There was so much blood it was overwhelming.

They covered their nose and mouth with their hands, eyes widening at the scene in front of them, and they were only able to see it because of the lanterns in every corner of the tent, hung on rusted old hooks from when their father’s father had been leader.

Their eyes flitted around the room to find the source of the blood, and finally saw a small pool at the side of their father’s bed. With no one else in the tent, Roz felt safe enough to rush inside.

“Father?” Their voice cracked, and with a yelp, they stumbled back, falling onto the floor. They heaved like they were going to vomit, only for nothing to come up.

No. This couldn’t be right.

Roz slowly pulled themselves back to their feet, and after squeezing their eyes shut, opened them again, hoping it was some strange nightmare. A trick of the light. An illusion. Anything.

Pierce Scarlett laid in his own bed, with three bullets lodged into his skull. His eyes were still open and bloodshot, his mouth wide in a silent scream.

“Oh-Oh my gods.” Roz gasped. They covered their mouth, watching the stream of blood trickle from the center of his forehead, down his temple, and onto the floor in a steady stream. It seeped through the blankets and the sheets, permanently staining the white cotton with crimson red.

Their head swam with fear, and their own nausea overtook any sense they might’ve had to close his eyes and mumble a prayer to Lady Death. Instead they remained rooted to the ground, their hands covering their mouth so they wouldn’t add bile to the already bloody scene.

Roz slowly reached out with a trembling hand. They closed their father’s eyes, and pushed his jaw shut. If not for the bullet holes, he would’ve looked quite peaceful. He could have just been sleeping, and any moment he was going to wake up and instruct Roz to get him a glass of brandy with a cinnamon stick.

As much as Roz feared their father - hell, sometimes they even loathed him- he was still the man who raised him when Roz had no mother. He was the one who taught them how to read and to write, the one who got them the best math tutor in the camp, the one who insisted they learn to hunt.

“Even though as long as you’re in my camp you’ll never have to fend for yourself-” He had said as he wrapped the feet of a shot goose. “- it’s still an important skill.”

It was one of those rare moments that Roz had seen their father act like a person, as opposed to a leader. When he snapped the head off the goose to show them how to roast it properly over an open fire, it had been just the two of them, their only company being the suns and the lizards that skittered across the sandy desert floor.

Roz had only been a child when he showed them the skills they’d need for the rest of their life, and they knew damn well he didn’t apply the same courtesy to his eldest daughter. She had to learn to hunt on her own, the only thing Pierce provided being the gun, but he held Roz’s hands when they trembled over their mother’s old hunting pistol, and gently guided their pointer finger towards the trigger.

When Roz was six years old; that had been the first time they’d actually watched something die. Before that they had assumed all food could be grown- including the roasted ham and smoked salmon they so adored. But when they watched a flying goose fall to the ground like a brick, from a bullet they had shot?

Well, at first they were satisfied. It didn’t register to them at first they had just killed something, and Pierce made it all seem like a game. He had ruffled his hair, and then they got right to preparing it.

“Why do we have to hunt?” Roz asked, digging into the cooked goose meat with their bare hands, now covered in grease.

“Because it’s natural.” He said, sitting against a large boulder, picking the skin off from around the bone. He was able to pull off a perfect drumstick without any sort of carving knife or even fork. “We hunt the geese, geese hunt the fish, fish hunt the algae. It’s just how the world works, Rozalie.”

This was before Roz had decided to shorten their name. Just Roz was fine for them, but they had no way of knowing that yet. This was even before Roz began to pull away from him, much preferring the solace and silence of their tent than the crude words their father deemed them old enough to be allowed to hear.

“Does anything hunt us?”

Pierce had paused for a moment, cocking his head to the side.

Then he smirked.

“They can fucking try.”

Roz guessed somebody took his proposal seriously.

Roz had no clue how long they had been standing there, but it was long enough that the stench of blood settled into the background. The storm outside showed no sign of letting up, seeming to only get worse as Roz watched the body in front of them grow cold.

It wasn’t until they heard creaking footsteps outside that they had to move.

Their head whipped back and forth looking for a hiding place, but without walls to hide behind or closets to duck in, Roz found themselves floundering. It wasn’t until the tent flap was just about to open that Roz ducked under the bed, rolling onto their stomach and covering their mouth with their hands to settle their breathing.

“Apologies for the wait, boss. It’s hard to find a good-”

The voice stopped quite suddenly.

“Huh…now who found you before I could finish the job?” She walked closer to the bed, and Roz nearly shrieked.

They knew that voice.

They knew those boots coated in a layer of grime so thick it was like ice cream.

“Doesn’t matter.” Viola said with a shrug. “Soon you’ll be dead in the ground, and I’ll be running the show.” She hummed as she began to peruse her father’s tent, going through drawers and cabinets, searching for something. “Now where is it?”

Roz wished they could be surprised.

They desperately wished this could be the biggest betrayal. That they could have never possibly seen this coming. It would have been so much easier than accepting that this wasn’t a matter of if, but of when.

When would Viola snap? When would Viola finally decide enough was enough?

When would the kicked dog finally bite?

“There we go!” Viola’s giddy voice cut through the fog of thoughts that settled around Roz like a dark cloud. She sounded like she had just found a present at Hearth’s Warming. Roz couldn’t exactly tell what was going on from under the bed, so pressed into the corner that their back was under against the wooden beams holding up the tent.

A boom of thunder shook the foundation, and Roz had to bite down on their hand to prevent themself from yelping.

Viola was unbothered, and sat down at the floor table in the center of the tent. “Thank you, boss, for not using your enderchest.” Even in death, Viola didn’t call the corpse lying in bed ‘father’. Even in death he still had hold on her. “This will make this so much easier.”

Roz scooted just a little closer to the edge of the bed, trying to peak out of their hood at what Viola had found. She had already killed him, what more was there to do next?

They watched as she popped the wax seal off of a scroll of paper, holding it up to the candle that sat beside a bottle of ink. She slowly lowered the parchment onto the flickering flame, and watched in giddy, childish glee as it erupted into flame. She dropped it and then stomped it out until it was nothing but a pile of ash beneath their boots.

“Now for the fun part.” She cracked her knuckles, pulling out an identical scroll from her inventory. It landed on the table, Viola sitting criss cross in front of it.

She plucked the quill from the pot of ink, flicking the excess onto the polar bear skin rug. When she was satisfied with that, she leaned over the table, and began to scratch looped cursive onto the scroll.

“The last…will…and testament…of Pierce Scarlett…”

Roz had to get the fuck out of there. That was the only thought on their mind as they listened to Viola mutter to herself while forging their father’s handwriting- down to the shorthand he used when spelling his own name. Roz had to lay there with their head hidden under their hands like a dog, peaking out every so often to make sure Viola hadn’t caught sight of them.

She was too caught up in her own delusions of grandeur raveling into reality to notice the squirming presence in the corner of the room. She was practically giggling, and was actually smiling. Two things Roz hadn’t seen her do since they were children. They couldn’t remember the last time they had seen her this happy, but why did it have to come at their father’s expense?

Viola had always had a knack for the more mischievous talents. While Roz spent their days learning to hunt, to forage, to get into scraps be it with fists or sword- Viola was picking the locks to the icebox with bobby pins, snatching every document of her father’s to perfectly mimic his shorthand, and hoarding spare bits of gold like a dragon. It was the only parts of her life that made living it that little bit easier.

All Roz could do was watch as Viola changed the will of their father to that of her own. With just a few quill strokes, she had undone what Pierce had spent his life building up to. His legacy crumbled away into the sand, and its ashes were buried under what would be the reign of Viola’s empire.

At least that was what Roz could gather from her deranged mumblings. They didn’t know whether they should be grateful or not that Viola had a horrible habit of self narration. She had no one else in the camp to talk to, so she found the next best thing to actual company- herself. Roz had always thought of it as just white noise to lull them to sleep in the wee hours of the night, but now it just made their stomach churn as she tripped over her own words, tapping the feathered quill against her lip.

Viola’s hair hung in front of her face, and she didn’t bother tucking it back behind her ears. Unlike Roz, whose hair always got the neatest of trims, nobody was allowed to cut Viola’s hair but, well, Viola. So it was always pulled up into a high ponytail, bangs framing her face. She lacked the gray streak that connected her to her mother, that trait going to Roz instead. Another reason for Viola’s bitterness towards her sibling to burn and fester.

She chewed on the end of the quill as she held the scroll up to the lantern light, her eyes scanning over the words she had managed to scrawl out. Her hands were still shaking from the adrenaline, fingertips stained with the polish they used to clean off their weapons every other night. Fingerprints stained the paper at the edges, but unless you held it up to the light, they were completely unnoticeable from the rest of the yellowing of the paper. Viola had even made sure the paper was the exact same- looking like it had been sitting in a chest and aging for a dozen years.

The scroll was sat back down on the table, Viola using the ends of books and the ink pot to keep it lying flat. While the ink was drying, she stood up to putter around the cabin and look for the wax seal Pierce used for important documents such as this.

This is my chance, Roz thought to themselves, still tucked under the bed. Their arms dug into their chest and their legs were pressed together as if they were doing a plank against the floor.

While Viola’s back was turned, Roz could make a break for it. If their hood stayed on their head, then Viola would be none the wiser that it was Roz who had witnessed her forgery. If Roz could get to Pierce’s generals, his advisors, even back to the medical tent and get Terrance, Viola wouldn’t be able to get away with this.

But then their stomach turned.

Viola had been so willing to go so far as to kill her own father.

What would she do to anyone else who got in her way?

As long as Roz has known their sister, they have never known her to be merciful, a trait surely passed down from Pierce. Even as children she would pull the wings off of butterflies, only stopping when Roz would go crying to another adult. She would shove, push, kick, and bite, until she was pushed and kicked herself. For how hard Pierce had tried, the fight was never beaten out of her.

But this was the first time Roz had ever thought of their sister as merciless.

The word that often came to Roz’s mind when they were confronted with the fact that they were so different from their sister, that they were treated so differently, was ‘misunderstood’. Roz tried to extend an olive branch time and time again- to understand Viola. But each time it blew up in her face. Each time they were rejected out of hand, and Viola would continue on the war path that she had carved out for herself.

Roz’s train of thought was going to be the death of them.

It was now or never.

Viola’s back was still turned, looking through cabinets to find where Pierce kept his art supplies. She grumbled under her breath and blew her bangs away from her face. “Stupid old man, can’t organize for shit.” She grumbled. “Let’s see- maybe I’ll move this over in the corner? Why’s it here anyway- stupid place to put a filing cabinet.”

Creak.

Viola froze, gripping the handle of the drawer with one hand, and the other still shoved into the drawer. Her eyes blew wide, and she strained her ears to listen without turning around. If it was just the tent settling against the rain, then she didn’t want to jump the-

Creak.

She whipped right along, and came face to face with a hooded figure.

Without thinking first, Viola opened up her inventory and pulled the same pistol she had used to shoot her father to shoot the intruder. Three shots missed, each piercing through the beams holding up the foundation. The figure yelped and ducked before running out of the tent.

Viola was about to pursue on foot.

But then she paused.

She slowly turned the gun on herself, screwing her eyes shut tight. The barrel pressed right up against her knee. Her finger hovered over the trigger. She didn’t know what she was waiting for, she wasn’t going to hit anything vital.

“Don’t pussy out now, Scarlett.”

BANG.

Viola’s scream echoed throughout the camp. She kicked the gun under the bed and hobbled up onto her feet, leaning against the tent flap.

“MURDERER!” She shouted, letting the crocodile tears flow freely down her cheeks. “MURDERER!”

Roz gasped as she heard Viola shout into the night. They turned just in time to see Viola’s twisted grin turn to feigned despair, and their stomach sank as they heard a gunshot being aimed towards their head. Even through the rain and hail, they recognized the confused shouts of the people she had grown up alongside.

“SOMEONE’S MURDERED MY FATHER! GET THEM!”

Their heart raced against their ears and they stumbled backwards into the red sand, elbows sinking into the muck. The hood that had been covering their face pushed away, and they were thankful for the storm.

Viola couldn’t make out their face.

Roz quickly pulled their hood back up around their head, scrambling to get back onto their feet. They didn’t even think about what they were leaving behind- they just ran.

They just ran.

Chapter Text

Roz tossed a log into the fireplace, squatting down and letting their hands hover over the flickering flame. Their breath came out in small clouds and their teeth chattered, but that’s what they got for squatting in the middle of winter.

The snow came down heavily in blankets, and the night sky was reflecting off the pure white coating the ground made the atmosphere light up in a lilac hue.

They rubbed their hands together once the feeling in their fingers began to return, glad they were able to bring in at least half a stack of wood before the real storm started. It was a hard adjustment from the pouring rain and sandstorms they were used to from the Mesa, but they rationalized that snow was just rain going through puberty- something they had heard from one of the older women at the camp a long time ago.

Long before they had become a squatter.

Roz didn’t even know whose house this was.

Whoever lived here- or used to live here, by the fact Roz had been here three weeks without interruption- must have been a librarian by how many rooms were solely dedicated to the books in neat orderly rows behind a wall of glass, with leather binding and yellowed pages holding near illegible calligraphy.

Or perhaps an antiquarian, since every shelf not occupied by more books was instead filled with knick knacks made of gold.

Cups, pieces of jewelry, statuettes. Roz should’ve melted them all down already to make armor and weapons, but instead they picked each one up and admired them. The jewels that were encrusted in the material, or the carvings in the gold drew them in, even if they didn’t understand their significance, and probably never will.

It was so different from what they had grown up with, that when they felt safe enough to wander around and explore, Roz was like a kid in a museum gift shop.

But, most of the time, they didn’t feel safe enough.

It was hard for fourteen years worth of instincts to be rewritten in just a handful of weeks.

Roz still followed the schedule they had been accustomed to the best they were able to in these conditions- awake at sunrise, breakfast at six A.M., workout, chores, workout again, lunch at one, relax, study, dinner at six P.M., spar with their sister, head to the medicine tent, in bed by ten at night, even if they never were able to fall asleep ‘on time’- but they had to make plenty of adjustments.

Instead, now they awoke just a little before sunrise, and slept whenever their body gave out from exhaustion. Time was spent either exploring the labyrinth-sized estate, clearing away cobwebs and dust bunnies that grew into dust monsters, rifling through chests for anything useful, chopping wood, gathering clean drinking and bathing water, and eating what they could, when they could.

They were happy for the grandfather clock in the lounge.

Knowing the exact time kept them sane.

Roz finished rubbing their hands together, stood back up, and glanced at the clock. It was just a little past ten at night, meaning it was time to turn in.

They ignored how the shadows danced along the quartz walls, and how branches from the trees outside smacked against the windows. The curtains had been pulled tight and tied together so there would be no chance of anyone peeking in, but just because nobody could see in, doesn’t mean Roz couldn’t see out.

This house- and the word house was used loosely- had no sign of neighbors in the immediate area, except for wisps of smoke over the hilltops where Roz assumed there to be more homes. That’s why they were careful to chop all the wood they could just before sunrise, and didn’t stray further than the small pond out front to gather water from. It was better to be safe than sorry.

Their stomach snarled as they started up the steps. Roz rolled their eyes, pushing down the hunger that made their gut twist and turn. If they ran their hand along their sides, they could feel their ribs beginning to poke out.

Roz couldn’t let something as simple as hunger stop them from surviving, but it wasn’t as if Roz had ever had to worry about starvation before. Their father had made sure they always had plenty to eat. The finest meats, the juiciest desert fruits, the freshest crops.

But they knew they could handle it until the snow thawed and they felt comfortable enough to go hunting.

After all, they had trained to thrive in environments like this! They were a warrior!

A warrior who was getting really tired of canned peaches, canned beans, canned tomatoes, canned everything. If this person had so many riches, how the hell was it they couldn’t afford a roast chicken? Or some pulled pork? Or sweet potatoes?

Roz had to stop thinking about food or they’d start salivating.

All the candles left inside the sconces had been lit with a box of half empty matches Roz had found in the drawer of the mahogany desk in the bedroom they had claimed as theirs.

The warm glow illuminated the twisting staircase of marble steps and blue-gray walls, cracks in the foundation giving the impression this house was even older than Roz had initially assumed. There weren’t so many cracks that it was a cause for concern, but just enough that if Roz could find some spackle, it’d give them some peace of mind.

The door to the master bedroom had been broken, on Roz’s first night.

Because of how frigid the temperatures of Rivendell became in the dead of night, the door had jammed shut, and in a panic they barreled into it, splintering parts of it and knocking it right off. Now all that was left off the once intricately carved wooden door was a small section of wood still attached to the hinges. Roz had used the rest for kindling.

They had regretted that initial panic every night since, Roz taking to hiding under the light blue goose feather comforter like a child, as if a measly blanket would stop any mobs that spawned in from the shadows, or gods forbid, a burglar.

Roz recognized the irony of being frightened by a burglar when they themselves had contemplated taking anything not nailed to the ground and trekking to the next Empire over to trade for some supplies, but the only thing stopping them was the fact the winter here was much more intense than they were used to, and freezing to death wasn’t the way they wanted to go out at all.

The room itself was nice, besides the broken door, and the unmade bed.

The bed was a dark wooden frame with golden paint in the grooves and a sheer white canopy, pushed all the way up against the back wall. Each wall was painted a deeper blue, like Roz was staring directly into the ocean. Two bookshelves were on each opposite wall- the shelf on the left directly next to the mahogany desk from where Roz had found the matches, and the shelf on the right beside a golden grand piano.

Roz shuddered as the chill from the wooden floorboards slipped past the layer of protection their socks gave, and they hopped directly onto the round white carpet in the center of the room. They recognized the texture to be bear fur, just like the polar bear skin rug their father had in his tent.

The room had only one window above the desk, which Roz saw no reason to cover up. Unlike the ones in the lounge and in the halls, this window was made entirely of stained glass, depicting a golden stag bowing its head to two young boys. One boy reaching towards the stag, and one boy turning away, surrounded by red glass in the shape of arrowheads.

The moonlight shone through the window, giving a colorful glow to what Roz had left scattered on the desk. The box of matches, a book they had been thumbing through, a mug they had forgotten to put away, and a child's rag doll.

They picked up the rag doll, running a hand through its pink yarn hair. It had round, black button eyes, and wore a blue pinafore dress.

Call Roz a sap, but they used to have a rag doll like this, so when they found it tucked away in the drawer of the desk, they knew they wanted to keep it. After all, their own precious rag doll had been thrown into the redstone caverns by Viola in a temper tantrum when they were just kids.

Whoever the doll had belonged to had obviously loved it well, since the arms were stitched with differing thread, and one of the legs had a patch that was red instead of the peachy skin tone the rest of the doll was made of. Roz frowned, thinking of the child who might've kept this doll. Were they missing it? Did they feel lost without it?

Roz placed it back on its little perch on the desk. It sat with a cross stitched smile, its head tilting slightly to the side. They childishly mimicked it, but then winced at the sudden crack from their neck.

It was bad enough the cold was making the pain in their knees worse, now their neck was suffering a similar fate? Roz mumbled Curses under their breath, slowly moving their head upright again.

"Stupid cold." They grumbled, standing up from the wooden chair. "Stupid freezing cold, stupid winter, stupid Rivendell."

They flopped down onto the bed with little fanfare, shifting clockwise until their head hit the fluffed up pillows, and they laid right on top of the blankets, making no move to get under the cozy warmth of the comforter. They just stared up at the canopy, eyes scanning the carvings.

There it was again; that same deer as in the stained glass portrait.

Roz didn’t know much about Rivendell lore- myths and folktales weren’t their father’s highest priorities. But they did know that deer were so sacred in Rivendell, that even killing one accidentally was on par with the murder of another player. Eating venison was just as taboo as eating the flesh of your fellow man, which confused Roz. What if the deer was killed by another animal? Or of natural causes? Did they just waste perfectly good meat? What about the antlers? Surely they used the bones for something! Weapons, or cutlery, or trinkets! The concept just baffled them.

Then again, it wasn’t like there were many deer in the Mesa to begin with. Roz had only had venison a handful of times, and even though they still strongly preferred smoked ham or salmon, they understood why deer was such a delicacy. To just let all that meat go to waste, what was the point? It wasn't like every deer could possibly be sacred- that wasn’t how animals worked.

Roz felt their eyelids getting heavier as they tried to rationalize it. They were having a one sided philosophical debate with themselves, since the only other company they had was the rag doll.

They didn't know when they had drifted off to sleep.

Just that one moment they closed their eyes, and when they opened them again, golden sunlight poured in through the window.

They groaned and rolled over onto their side, shivering from the sudden chill. They pulled their knees up to their chest, teeth chattering loud enough that it woke them from their half asleep stupor. The fire must have gone out, which meant they overslept into the afternoon.

It wasn’t as though they had any actual responsibilities to tend to, but keeping to a schedule made their day-to-day a little easier. Even if it was just puttering around dusting cobwebs from corners or peaking into chests and looking for oddities- at least they were doing something!

Roz just pulled the blankets tighter around themselves.

It was easier said than done just to get out of bed. Roz had never slept on anything so comfortable and soft in their life- it was like being enveloped by a cloud. They had luxuries growing up, but the firm mattress they had grown accustomed to was nothing compared to the foam that sunk under their weight, and the pillow that engulfed their head, hair fanning around the white silk pillowcases.

If only their father could see them now, curled up under downy comforters, sleeping the daylight away as if they were some pampered royal- akin to Lady Katherine of the fairies or, and heavens forbid they dare make this comparison lest they feel ashamed of their sudden sloth, Prince Joel.

He'd be aghast by it, no doubt, but Roz found themselves drifting back off to sleep, wondering how different life would have played out had they been born into royalty.

For all Roz knew, hey, maybe their mother had been royalty.

After all, there was so much about her they simply didn't know- it was easy to keep their eyes shut and imagine a faceless woman in a sparkling red gown, twirling around ballrooms instead of sitting around the bonfire, and doing her hair up all nice and pretty instead just slicking it back into a ponytail with a handful of grease.

It was easy to imagine the clinking of champagne glasses, and the taste of fancy pastries that were fresh, not stale like the ones that were frequently stolen.

It was as easy as falling back asleep.

Only to be awoken again by sudden clatter.

Roz shot straight out of bed, tossing the covers off of their still shivering body. They swung their legs over the side of the bed, but didn't move another inch in case the mattress beneath them creaked.

They held their breath,sucking in their ribs and feeling them dig into their flesh. Their fists curled around the sheets with a white knuckled grasp, and Roz could have sworn they heard a tear.

Their eyes darted around the room, searching for something that could be used as a weapon. No book was heavy enough, and the rag doll seemed to look at them and say, 'what do you want me to do about it?'

Everything they could think to use as a weapon was left downstairs. Pokers for the fireplace, kitchen knives, snow shovel- it was either in the kitchen, lounge, or foyer.

Then again, as Roz strained their ears, the noise had disappeared as soon as it arrived.

'Maybe it was just the house settling', Roz thought, slowly moving back onto the bed, just to get a few extra moments of rest. 'It is pretty old. Or it could've been tree branches falling outside'. They tried to rationalize the sudden sound, and calm their erratic heart rate in the process.

But another sudden THUD proved their fears to be correct.

It came swiftly and without warning, and shook the whole house from the pillars holding it up to the diamond chandeliers that swung from the rafters. That suddenness not only rattled the abode, but Roz as well.

Fourteen years worth of survival instincts kicked into overdrive like the flip of a switch. They sprung to their feet and ducked down to the ground, back pressed against the side of the bed to check their inventory.

There were two extra logs from chopping wood the morning before, a spool of thread, a cast iron frying pan-

Nothing else in their inventory mattered. They equipped the frying pan in their hand, giving it an experimental swing. Bits of rust flaked off of the handle, and the bottom of the pan smelled like old meat and smoked creeper. Their grip tightened as they heard footsteps slowly creeping up the stairs, their heart hammering against their chest.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Roz could taste blood from how hard they were biting down on the inside of their cheek. With each approaching footstep, a different vision played in their minds. They weren’t stupid, they knew the risks of squatting in a strangers home, and they did it anyway.

But did they have a choice? Where else could they have gone?

They certainly couldn't have stayed in Mezaelea.

The main kingdom by the bay was crawling with Queen Indigo's goons, especially with the upcoming coronation of the prince, soon to be king Joel. She'd want everything to be perfect, and perfection often didn't include scraggly, starving, will punch your lights out for looking at them wrong, bandits. As far as Roz knew, the only place bandits belonged was wherever they could hide.

The footsteps finally came to a halt, just in front of the door frame that had long been broken. The floorboards creaked under the intruder's weight, Roz still holding their breath.

"What's happened here?"

The voice Roz heard was much older- somewhere in his early 50's, just from the croak in his throat. His accent was thick like a rich wine, and from the sound of it, he hailed right from the land with the best bottles of it.

He walked further into the room, leaning on his walking stick that thudded with each step, the rubber on the bottom scuffing against the old floors.

The man hummed under his breath as his ice blue eyes scanned over what had been his room- the unmade bed, the doll on the desk, the box of matches left out, books in different places. He had already assessed that somebody was living here by the charred logs left in the fireplace, but now seeing a peak of autumn orange hair peeking out from the side of the bed, his suspicions were confirmed.

“Ahhh, I see. Ye can come out now. I’m no threat.”

Every muscle in Roz’s body froze as they clung tighter to the only weapon they had on them. It wasn’t even that good of a weapon if they were being honest. One swing would cause it to crumble in half, which meant if he got any closer, Roz would only have the one shot.

Instead of approaching Roz, the old man sat on the edge of the bed, propping his chin up against the crystal welded onto this walking staff.

“Ye mind if I have a rest first? Everything starts to ache once ye get to my age, and then ye can’t fight like ye used to.”

Roz still didn’t say anything, backed into the corner like a wild animal.

Either the man was being patient with Roz, or he just liked to hear himself talk, because he continued the one sided conversation as if they had actually responded to him.

“Especially living up in the snow- why did I pick the snow? I’m no fan of ice, but I’ve lived here all me life, I might as well learn to live with it. Sixty something odd years and I still hate the snow. That’s got to be a laugh.”

From his pocket he took out a steaming hot roll wrapped in tinfoil. It was slathered with warm butter, sprinkled with cinnamon, and smelled like heaven. He set it down beside him, and placed it just behind him on the bed, not even turning around.

“Here, try it. An ol’ family recipe.”

To say Roz was hesitant would be an understatement.

But to say Roz was starving would be generous.

They leaned up against the bed with their elbows propped against the mattress, and grabbed at it with both hands, tearing off the tinfoil as they retreated back into their corner.Their hands became slathered in butter, and they sunk their teeth into the warm dough that melted in their mouth and danced on their tongue in an explosion of sweetness.

It tasted like what Roz imagined a home to feel like, and after a month of canned food, they scarfed it down in mere ticks, wiping their hands on their pants.

“Did ye like it?” The man asked, after a beat of silence, where he didn’t hear Roz eating.

Without thinking, Roz nodded.

“Glad ye did, wouldn’t want good food to go to waste.”

The hair on the back of Roz’s neck stood up. “How-” They gulped, not trusting their own voice after so long of silence. “How did you-?”

“I was a teacher most me life.” He said. “I’ve got eyes on the back of me head.” He moved his hair back from around his neck, revealing a tattoo in glittering gold- as if it had been melted into the veins and wrinkles- of two eyes that looked too human to be an illustration.

He let his silver-gray hair fall back against his neck and drape down his shoulders in a short ponytail tied with a copper band. He let out a lilting hum, tapping his fingers against his thighs.

"Ye can set yer weapon down. I'm of no harm to ye."

That was only true if Roz was looking at his physical appearance. The man was tall and wiry, slightly hunched over when he sat. His fingers were needle thin, and he was pale as the moonlight itself. But Roz knew better than to underestimate someone on appearance alone, especially a man, who, by the looks of his staff, possessed magic.

Magic…

Roz had never experienced magic first hand before. Nobody at camp knew magic, or if they did, they kept it to themselves- no need to flaunt what others didn't have. They knew magic existed from books that'd make their way to the camp, and of course they had enchanting tables, but Roz had never witnessed genuine, bonafide, magic. They weren’t even sure the signs of a magic user, but a staff with a round, purple crystal welded onto it and a man with eyes on the back of his head seemed to be a pretty tell-tale sign.

The fact he had magic was enough to deter them from any attack. They slowly set their weapon down on the ground beside them, still shrunk against the wall, hands coated in butter, which they wiped against their pants.

“Do ye have a name?”

Roz nodded, now that they were aware the man could clearly see them.

“Do ye want to share it?”

“...How do I know you’re not gonna take it?”

The man chuckled. “A wise one, ye are. Alright, I’ll give ye mine first. I’m Haryk, but my students just call me Professor. Ye don’t have to, of course, just thought I’d let ye know.”

Haryk. So he was Rivendellian.

Roz wasn’t quite ready to tell him their name yet, and instead let their eyes wander towards the stained glass mural of the two boys, and the golden stag. They didn’t quite know why, but it was sticking out of the corner of their vision like a sore thumb, and it was easier to just focus on that than it was the fact they had been caught squatting.

“...Who are they?” Roz asked, surprising themselves.

“Who are who?”

“Them.” Roz pointed to the mural. “The two boys.”

“Ahhh.” The man said, nodding sagely. “Xornoth and Scott. I thought for sure everyone knew their tale, even those up in the Mesa.”

Roz immediately reached for their weapon again. “How did you-?”

“Yer accent.”

Oh.

That made more sense.

They still kept a hold on the rusted pan, even if it was looser than it typically would be on an axe, sword, or spade. “...Didn’t think it was that thick.”

“It’s not, but I’m as well traveled as they come. In fact I’ve personally met Queen Indigo. She’s a lovely lass.”

Roz’s nose wrinkled at just the mention of the Queen. They’d heard from their own father that she was ramping up taxes the past few months, just for her son’s coronation. She ‘reassured’ the people of the capital that they’d decrease again once the ceremonies were over, but it still made Roz’s mood sour to think how that money could be better used. The only reason their father had complained was because the money would be going towards extra security, making it harder to sneak their men into the capital to loot while everyone would be distracted by the festivities.

“Ye still curious about the two boys?”

“...Yeah.”

“How about we talk over some hot tea?”

“...Do you have coffee?”

“Oh, I like ye already.”

Roz was on their second cup of hot coffee and second plate of scones, and they still hadn’t given the old timer their name yet.

All they did while he talked was tear into their food, spraying crumbs all over their mouth when they said ‘thank you’, and accidentally spill hot coffee onto their trousers.

This man, Haryk, boy could he talk! He had started to tell the tale of the two brothers stuck in an endless cycle of birth, possession, and reincarnation, but found himself almost instantly distracted by the lack of canned foods in his pantry, which made Roz press their lips together and look down, focusing solely on the blueberry scone on their saucer.

“Me memory must not be as sharp as I thought.” He scratched at his silver beard, face scrunched up as he tried to recall the groceries he had left behind when he had started his impromptu journey. “Could’ve sworn I had more canned peaches, maybe some beans.”

The tips of Roz’s ears burned.

“Oh well.” He sighed, shutting the cabinet doors. “Do ye have a coat?”

“Huh?”

“A coat. A winter coat. An’ some booties, ye’ll need those as well.”

“I, uh, no?”

“Ah, well, ye can just borrow mine. I’ll shrink ‘em down for a few hours, then they’ll fit ye right.”

“Wait-” Roz stood up. “Why would I need boots? Or a coat?”

He furrowed his brow as he looked at them. “Well, ye certainly don’ want to freeze to death, do ye? The market isn’t far from here, and there still be plenty of daylight. We can get ye a proper meal, an’ some proper winter clothes too. Ye might as well be nude if ye step outside like that.”

Roz blushed, looking down at what they were wearing, and found that Haryk was right. They were wearing only a thin pair of brown pants, which were rolled almost eight times so they didn’t drag past their ankles, a thin white work shirt under a woolen blue dyed cardigan, and just one pair of socks they managed to scavenge in their size.

They had been borrowing a coat they had found in one of the many closets in order to chop wood, and they just wore their own boots from home, since the ones they had found were either three times their size, or meant for a child and colored a garish pink. Roz couldn’t think of a single time they had even worn pink.

But Haryk hadn’t asked if Roz had borrowed his coat, just if they had their own.

And the answer was, of course, no.

Roz was even more confused now.

Could they handle going to the market? Roz had barely ventured further than the pond out by the front of the mansion, and when they did leave to chop wood, it was always before any sane person would possibly be awake, before the sun even thought to kiss the horizon. They hadn’t actually spoken to any of the locals, and weren’t sure if they wanted to for that matter.

They spoke with a twang from how they grew up, they spat on the ground no matter the company, they had dirt under their nails and their hair was never actually brushed. Why would a prim and proper elf of Rivendell look at them with anything but contempt and disgust?

Roz could be the poster child for the word ‘vagabond’, something the older women of the camp had called them all their life, though they suspected any older women in Rivendell would say it with their lips curled and looking down their noses.

“I don’t think-”

“Bit o’ sunlight would do ye some good as well.” He completely cut them off. “I mean, ye might be from Mezaelea, but yer pale as a witch, child.”

“I’m not-! Hang on now, old man!”

Haryk let out a deep, belly laugh. “What? Ye scared of the market?”

Roz didn’t think they could blush any redder, but here they were, matching the same shade as the cherry jam that was slathered onto their scone.

“...Fine.” They grumbled. “I'll go to the market. But you've gotta finish your story!”

“Story?”

“About, you know! About the brothers!”

There was a twinkle in his eye as a smile played on his lips.

“Aye, if ye insist. I am a man of my word. Ye'll get yer story, child.”

Chapter Text

Roz’s shoulders squared as they shuffled through the crowd of people parading around town, their feet crunching against the snow. The parts of their hair that weren’t tucked under a hat were subject to the onslaught of snowflakes that they kept trying to catch, only for Roz to feel disappointed when they melted against the pads of their gloves.

The cold nipped at their nose and at the tips of the ears, which twitched with every unfamiliar sound- bells jingling, idle chatter, tea cups clinking against saucers. Even though they had just been nibbling on scones, their stomach still grumbled at the smell of lamb roasting over a fire, or from a fresh loaf of bread being taken out of a wood burning oven.

They salivated like a wolf before catching Haryk staring from the corner of their eyes. Their cheeks dusted pink, and suddenly their snow boots were the most interesting thing in the whole market.

“I don’ even have to ask where our first stop’ll be.” He chuckled good naturedly.

Roz blushed from pink to red. “Course I’m friggin’ hungry, it’s not like I could hunt around here. Too cold to get any of the good game.”

“I’d bet. Never been one for hunting meself, but to each their own.”

Their mind raced, unable to tell from Haryk’s tone if he was laughing at them, or expecting them to laugh with him. Either way, Roz pursed their lips, ignoring the burning in their cheeks.

“What are ye peckish for?”

“Um, I dunno, what’s good around here?”

“I’d never pass up a good battered cod!”

As if on cue, Roz’s stomach grumbled, and to Roz’s ears, it was louder than the whole crowd combined.

“Just this way then!”

Haryk took Roz’s arm, and they were about to protest as he steered them down a busy street into one with more wiggle room, but stopped and looked in awe at all of the restaurants and shops lining the streets, decorated with soft, flickering golden lanterns like sunsets in a jar, the snow glistening like a portrait.

With less people, Roz was able to take in more of the sights, and after scanning the cobblestone streets lined with gold, the smell of sweet berry bushes that seemed to be eternally in bloom wafted over them, making their shoulders sag just a smidge.

Haryk let go of their arm, but kept an eye on them so they didn’t wander too far off- he didn’t want to lose them to the crowd. He leaned against his staff, and hearing them ‘oooh’ and ‘ahh’ under their breath, he was reminded of when he used to have someone to watch out for. He used to walk up and down these very streets, remembering her laughing and singing to whatever song and dance she would make up to pass the time. Of course he would laugh, sing, and play with her when he could, but now he was regretting all the times he didn’t.

His pointed ears gave a twitch when he heard Roz start humming a song of their own, and it felt as if his heart had just begun to thaw. His eyes widened, the song making him stop in his tracks.

They noticed Haryk stop, and so they did as well, turning to face him.

“Something wrong?”

Haryk gaped for a moment before shaking his head, and giving them an obviously fake smile. “Oh yes, just needed to stop ‘n catch me breath. These old bones just don’t work like they used to.”

Roz squinted their eyes at the obvious lie, but shrugged, and continued on walking, just a few paces ahead of Haryk, their stride now slowed to give him a moment to catch up.

It would make more sense for Haryk to be the one leading, since Roz didn’t know up from down in Rivendell, let alone where he was taking them to get food, but they couldn’t help but race off like an excited little kid.

All they had ever known was hot red desert sand, cacti, skittering lizards, and circling vultures. They weren’t used to the pure white landscape with snow draped around every turn like the world’s largest quilt, or the clean blue sky free of smoke, or even the gentle chatter of post accents and polite conversation, compared to the often drunken shouts, songs, and jeers from the others at the camp.

Roz wanted to soak everything in like a sponge, and it might sound strange, but they couldn’t help but think something about the geezer was familiar.

They weren’t reminded of their father, that was for damn sure.

He would’ve thought Haryk weak. He would’ve taken his staff and broken it in half, rendering him defenseless. He would have taken every scrap of gold in that mansion and sold it to the highest bidder, before inviting the worst of the worst for a grand feast, eating him out of house and home before finishing him off.

But Roz had to remind themself that their father wasn’t here. Or anywhere for that matter. Pierce Scarlett was probably six blocks under, and with Viola in charge, he would be lucky to even have a blank headstone.

Roz’s bouncy stride slowed significantly, their smile dropping.

“...Child?”

“Huh?”

All the noise of the surrounding market place came rushing back to Roz in a wave, washing over them and making them take a breath. They forced a smile on their face just as Haryk had a moment ago, and turned to face him, rubbing the back of their neck.

“Sorry, I, uh, yeah I got distracted. Ya need something?”

“We’re here.”

Roz pivoted on their heel to look up at the building Haryk was pointing to.

If it weren’t for the fact the pillars holding it up were painted gold, then it would’ve been quaint and unassuming. The roof was a stained glass dome, and Roz could only imagine what a pain in the ass that would be to clean, but practicality was never the way of the elves. The wood of the walls were painted a soft sky blue that looked as if you could sink your hand right through it, and the double doors were propped open, allowing the winter breeze to infiltrate the warmth of the restaurant.

They would’ve held onto the railing if they weren’t convinced it was cold enough that even with their gloved hand they’d stick to the iron, so instead they held their arms out as if they were balancing on a tightrope as they stepped up to the door. It was only a small incline, but the sheen against the wood meant the steps were frozen over, and Roz wasn’t going to risk slipping and eating shit, not in front of the elves of Rivendell.

Roz had been out of the mansion for the first time all month for about twenty clicks, and didn’t want to be laughed out of town so soon.

Haryk stood behind them and began to unwrap his scarf and take off his hat, hanging both on the hook beside the doors that were already crowded with puffy coats and mittens in pairs. He stomped his boots on the rug, and Roz did the same.

Just being in such a pristine establishment made Roz feel dirty. They blushed and stared down at their boots, watching the snow melt so they wouldn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes and see judgment.

“Table for two, if ye have the space.” Haryk said politely to the hostess.

“Of course! Right this way!”

Roz shuffled behind Haryk as they were led through a maze of tables, chairs, and booths, feeling less like the bandit they had been raised to be, and more like a child who had lost their parents in a store. It felt as if all eyes were glued on them, despite there being a million other things more interesting than them in the restaurant.

Who would be talking about the wine of the day or that afternoon’s specials when there was some scraggly teenager messing up the shiny quartz floors, who looked like they hadn’t brushed their hair in weeks? That was Roz’s thought process anyway.

They pulled out the chair that the hostess gestured to, and mumbled a small ‘thank you’ as they sat down.

The silky smooth turquoise tablecloth was set up with golden utensils on each side, a plate with a bowl on top, and inside the bowl was a cloth napkin folded in the shape of a swan. On one side there was a champagne glass, and on the other side was a small bowl. In the center of the table was a candle in a jar flickering away, and the hostess placed down a basket of bread right beside it, warm butter melting off the still piping hot surface. Two menus were tucked into the cloth of the basket, the contents written in golden cursive that Roz would have to squint to read.

When the hostess left, Haryk took one of the bread rolls, and broke it in half.

“Ye get whatever ye want.” He said, taking a bite. “I’m just a bit peckish, so I’ll be skippin’ anything too heavy.”

Roz glanced down at the menu.

No prices were listed, but just from the foods alone, Roz could tell this could get pricey. They didn’t know if Rivendell establishments dealt in gold or trade, but either would be a hefty price for the rich delicacies printed onto the pamphlet. Lamb with cream sauce, battered cod and jacket potato, blueberry pie with a chocolate ganache- Roz had never even had half of these foods before!

“Um-” They rubbed the back of their neck. “Any uh, any recommendations?”

Haryk tapped his chin in thought. “Hm. Well, I could never say no to a good battered cod like I said before. An’ if ye want a desert, we can split it.”

“Oh, yeah that’s- that sounds good.”

“Something wrong?”

Roz’s face burned red and they looked down at the menu as if to bore a hole in it.

“Child?”

“...Why’re you doing this for me?”

“What, getting ye a meal?”

“I-!” Roz sighed and ran a hand through their hair, tugging at the gray streak that had fallen in front of their face. “I squatted in your house for a month! I was gonna attack you! Rob you! I should’ve but-!”

They crossed their arms over the table, and ducked their head down.

Roz didn’t see how Haryk’s expression softened. He set his half eaten bread roll down onto his plate, and they heard him sigh.

“Did ye want me to finish the story?” He asked.

The story?

Oh.

Right.

The two brothers.

Roz nodded and sat up, wiping their eyes free of unshed tears. The hair on the back of their neck prickled, and from the look Haryk threw over their shoulder, they could tell people had been staring, despite the fact they had kept their voice hushed.

His expression softened again as he sighed, hands folded in front of him.

“Millennia ago, our world was ruled by mighty’n’ powerful gods. We now know them as the gods up in Mojang, but back then, we gave them a lot more credit than we do now. They made everything. They filled the oceans with water, The Ocean Queen the direct descendant of that goddess. They filled the sky with clouds, shaped the land like clay.

As more players spawned, more began to form communities. Religions. There were two in particular that would settle in our land of Rivendell. Aeor, the god of light, and Exor, the god of darkness. Eventually both of their titles would be stripped away an’ given to new goddesses.

Aeor’s followers believed in peace above all else. They rarely raised their sword, even to animals, the only exception being the mobs we know today. But back then, they were much more monstrous. Creations of Exor’s made of darkness and malice, without thought of their own besides to kill. Exor’s followers believed that only the strong should be allowed to survive, and those who didn’t survive these amalgamations just weren’t strong enough.

Entire communities, civilizations were wiped out, seemingly overnight. Aeor was growing weaker as his brother’s power grew, but despite this, he knew he had to put an end to his reign of terror.

The gods all came together, with Aeor at the helm, to banish his brother deep in the caves, within the walls themselves as part of the stone, and destroy the corruption he had begun to bring with him. They were successful, but with a great cost.

The goddess and god of the ocean, the goddess of the Nether, the goddess of flowers, and the king of The End all rescinded into a deep, deep slumber. Aeor lost his powers, and they quickly had to be transferred to the new goddess of light, Kirsti, before it ran wild. Exor’s power was stripped before his banishment, the powers of darkness given to the deity Lauren.

Time passed, and people forgot. A tale as old as time itself.

As it always seems to start, two brothers found the caves on the outskirts of the new, but prospering Rivendell.

Elena, and Conal. The two young princes of the kingdom stumbled upon the mouth of the cave. Elena recalled the stories his father, the king had told him, and tried to tug his older brother away. But Conal had a rebellious streak, and went into the caves anyway, staying there until the wee hours of the night, where he returned home, and brought something else with him.

As the two grew older, they grew apart. Elena was appointed to the High Council, as he was next in line for the throne. He took his duties seriously. Conal, on the other hand, grew bitter of his brother the more time he spent down in the caves. He began to grow jealous, hearing whispers,telling him to do terrible things. But, despite those whispers driving him mad, he didn’t lay a hand on his brother. When Elena had to banish him due to pressure from the council, Conal left without a word, and without protest.

The people of Rivendell began to go missing over the years. It started off small, one or two people every couple of months, but before anyone could notice the red flags, entire families, blood lines, were vanishing into the night without a trace, unable to be found by their friends or search parties.

Enough was enough when the queen was next to vanish.

Elena, now king, knew what he had to do.

He called upon Aeor, his god and ancestor, to please give him the strength to defeat his brother, and bring peace back to the land. The god granted Elena the power he once had, dripping his golden ichor into the mouth of his descendant.

Elena didn’t want anyone else to be harmed by his brother’s actions, so he sought him out in the dead of night, alone. He knew it was foolish to go without at least some aid, but he was given Aeor’s light, and surely that had to be better than risking the lives of his fellow elves.

When he found Conal, he didn’t see his brother.

Instead, he saw a demon, slumped in the corner, surrounded by the skeletal remains and mangled corpses of the missing elves. Conal’s eyes were red like blood, his stag horns twisted into nettle covered antlers, and his face was etched into a permanently wicked grin.

Elena, now a champion of Aeor, and Conal, now a champion of Exor, broke out in a mighty battle, once again continuing the cycle.

With Aeor’s help, Elena was able to open a portal to another realm, one we now know to be called Hels thanks not to magic, but to science. Conal, and by proxy Exor, were banished to the strange, unknown version of our Nether, and the portal closed for good, leaving Elena alone, with no family left.

The sadness became too much, and Aeor, seeing how not only his champion was suffering, but also his family, decided it was better to forget than to repeat the mistakes of the past. So with a heavy heart, Aeor removed the memory of Conal, of Exor, of corruption from everyone’s mind. But when he went to remove Elena’s memory, he begged to keep what he had left of his brother, of how happy their family once was. Aeor allowed this.

Elena decided he was no longer content to sit back and be king. He passed the title onto his eldest daughter, and began to travel the world.

From Pixandria to The Ocean Empire, from what would become Mythland to the beginnings of The Lost Empire. Elena learned about new cultures, new music, new food. Life became worth living again, as he told his own stories. With no one to remember Conal, he began weaving a new picture of him. His brother, the sensitive soul, the artist, the one who made the most beautiful paintings, who cared for the sheep in the glade as if they were his own kin, who cried at the birth of his first niece and nephew. That was who Elena wanted the world to remember.

When the end of Elena’s life came about, his soul was now bonded permanently with Aeor. Unable to separate the two, for fear of unleashing Aeor’s wild magic back into the world, a cycle of rebirth was decided on by whatever power was above Aeor.

Every time a member of the royal family is born, it is a gamble. Who will be blessed with Aeor’s soul, and who will be cursed with Exor’s spirit? It’s a gruesome, and devastating cycle, and the only reason we even know about it is because our current king, Scott, wanted no secrets in his kingdom. He is the current champion of Aeor, and 200 years ago he lost his brother Xornoth to the corruption. We- we have him to thank for this part of our history returning to us.”

When Haryk looked up at Roz, he had almost forgotten they were in a restaurant.

And apparently, so had they.

Tears had welled up in their eyes, and they made no move to blink them away, letting a single drop roll down their cheek and splash onto the tablecloth.

They stared at him with their jaw open, and with a thousand block gaze that made Haryk think maybe he had gone a bit too far with the theatrics.

“Child?”

Roz clamped their jaw shut, and didn’t say anything.

When the waitress came to their table, both simply ordered- battered cod with a jacket potato and a slice of glow berry pie for the both of them- and then went back to silence, the ambiance from the other restaurant patrons filling any dead air.

It was easier to listen to the idle prattle until it became static than it was for Roz to try and untangle the web of thoughts that was rolling around in their head into tangible words. They tried to open their mouth to say something multiple times, but swallowed each time, like a fish desperate for water.

What could they possibly say?

That the story of Rivendell’s history more closely resembled their own life than any other story they could fathom? That they understand Aeor and Elena- putting themselves on the same level as gods and kings?

Did Elena and Conal ever play together? Did Aeor and Exor argue over petty sibling drama? Roz racked their brain, trying to conjure an image of their own sister that had actually cared for them once upon a time, but came up empty. It was hard to imagine Viola in a doting older sister role, and it was all too easy to picture her with the demon horns that Haryk described.

Exor’s ideology matched verbatim the one Viola and Roz had grown up with.

That the weak needed to make way for the strong. Whether that be strength in body, in mind, in soul- if you had that strength, then there was a place for you at the top.

The difference was that Roz had always gotten a bitter taste in their mouth when they tried to put themself in that mindset to appease their father, while Viola gulped it down like nectar. She lived by those words, she did everything to get stronger, to grapple for what power she believed she deserved.

Just like Exor.

Just like Conal.

Just like Xornoth.

They carefully unfolded the swan napkin and dabbed at their already bloodshot eyes so the waitress coming over with their food wouldn’t see their tears.

With the smell of fish and pie wafting through their nose, Roz almost forgot what they had been upset about in the first place. The rumbling of their stomach was a welcome distraction from the tugging of their heartstrings, and with the first bite of the jacket potato slathered with melted cheese and bits of bacon, Roz was knocked back into the present after having one foot in the past.

Haryk prodded at his food with his gold flaked fork, his eyes flitting up every few ticks at Roz, whose brows were furrowed in deep thought. His lips formed a thin line across his face as he thought of what he could possibly say to them. He knew the story was a bit much, but it seemed to have struck more of a chord than he anticipated.

“...Emerald for yer thoughts?”

Roz’s head perked up.

“Huh?”

“Ye just look like ye have somethin’ on yer mind. Go ahead an’ spit it out, I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

Roz’s cheeks flushed again as their eyes lowered back down to their plate. They cut off a piece of fish with the knife, before stabbing it and eating it off the dulled blade, their cheek resting against their free palm.

“Do you think-” Roz started before sighing. “Is this story true?”

“Aye. True as you ‘n me.”

“...Do you think Aeor and Exor will ever get to be happy again? Together?”

“One can only hope.” He said.

“What about Xornoth? Is- Is he-?”

“It’s been some time since anyone’s seen the demon. I’m sure he’ll be back one day to claim what he thinks be his, but I’m also sure it won’t be in our lifetimes.”

Roz nods, picking at their food again. “Has anyone ever tried to…reverse? The corruption?”

“There have been…attempts. Not all successful, mind ye, but still, some progress has been made. More so with the help of modern science than magic, even though magic is nothing to sneeze at!”

“Hm…”

“Hm?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing…I was just… thinking.”

“Feel free to share. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Magic, it’s- how do you know when you use it if it’s gonna be the good kind or the bad kind?”

Haryk set his fork down. “Child, that question has haunted magic users since it was gifted to us.The current headmaster of Crystal Cliffs don’t believe in good or bad magic, just magic that’s wild an’ needs taming, and magic that’s already domesticated.”

“What do you believe though?”

Haryk scratched at his beard in thought. He hadn’t wondered something like that in a while, but-

“I believe magic is good or bad dependin’ on the person an’ the circumstance. Magic itself isn’t inherently evil, but there are evil people out there. So long as there’s magic, there’s people who’ll wanna do harm with it.”

Roz visibly deflated.

“But-” He continued. “There also will always be those who use it for good. To help others, to better themselves, to advance. An’ that’s why I turn me nose at any o’ those anti- magic puritans we got runnin’ around lately. Their whole methods are based in arrogance, and as a professor, well I take offense to that!”

“You teach at the Cliffs, right?” Roz knew Haryk had said that before, but they just wanted to clarify. They had already been given a whirlwind of information, it was starting to become hard to differentiate what he had told them about the past and the present.

He straightened up in his seat, swelling with a sense of pride. “Aye, been teaching there for some 30 odd years!”

Roz’s lips twitched in a smile. “That uh, that sounds nice. Never really been much for school myself.”

“Well, it’s not for everyone.”

Their cheeks darkened again, hair falling in front of their face. “No uh, I mean, I’ve never…been to school.”

Haryk’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “But ye hale from Mezaelea? They have one of the best art schools on Empires!”

“Yeah, well, father didn’t think that was all too important.”

Roz didn’t mean to be curt with Haryk- it’s not like they had told him where exactly in Mezaelea they had come from- but with the rising heat in their face and the suddenly mention of their father, Roz just wanted to be swallowed whole by the earth, never to be seen again.

There they went again, thinking about the life they had left behind.

People say not to speak ill of the dead, but it was hard not to. Each conversation with Haryk reminded them of what they had lacked from their own upbringing- mainly education. Sure they had been taught to read, and write, and basic math, but none of that was placed above hunting, fighting, or delegation. It was hard not to compare and contrast the Crystal Cliffs they were picturing in their head to the lessons Viola and Roz had been given through their childhoods, and Roz’s frown deepened.

Shiny new textbooks, fresh parchment, the smell of ink, chalk- that’s what Roz imagined an actual school to be like. Not the rickety old table they had kneeled in front of with a scrap of yellowed parchment to practice their ABCs on. Not the wooden targets they would shoot arrows and bullets into the center of, ten years old and cheering when they’d hit a bullseye. Not learning the difference between plants, and how much of a certain dosage would be lethal.

Roz was suddenly bitter for all that had been stolen from them, and longed for that sense of normalcy.

And they had completely lost their appetite.

They picked up their glass of water and nursed it, shivering from the cold that was coming in from the open doors. Half of their meal was still on their plate, as well the entire slice of pie, and now they felt bad for being unable to take another bite.

“What’s yer opinion?”

“My wha?”

“Yer opinion. About magic.”

Roz opened their mouth to speak, but instead just shrugged. “I dunno. Haven’t thought much about it if I’m being honest.”

“Well there’s no time like the present!”

“I-”

Shit.

What did Roz think of magic?

“I dunno, I mean, it’s just like every other tool or weapon, right?” Roz rubbed the back of their neck. “Knives can be used to cook or to kill. Arrows can be used to feed a village or destroy it. Fire can keep you warm or burn you alive. It depends on how you used it.”

Haryk’s eyebrows shot up. “That be a very wise way of seeing it.”

“Really?”

“Aye, ye have the mind of a wizard, child.”

“...Roz.”

“Pardon?”

“My name. It’s Roz.”

Chapter Text

Roz paced back and forth.

And back and forth.

And back and forth.

And back and forth and back again, just as they had been doing for the past hour and a half, scuffing up the wooden floorboards with the bottom of their house slippers.

Roz was half convinced they’d rut a hole with all their pacing, but they just couldn’t help themselves, the nerves building up in them, fizzing like drinking too much root beer in one go. They had already bitten the nail bed on their thumb down to the cuticle, and had to wrap it in two bandages to stop the bleeding. It was a habit they hadn’t indulged in since they took the entrance exams, getting blotches of red all over their parchment, but it was a good thing they had been using red ink!

That was actually what was making them a wreck in the first place.

Two months ago they had taken the entrance exam to get into Crystal Cliffs Academy. After two years of rigorous training under Haryk, they had finally been at the skill level required to enter as a sophomore.

It had taken some finagling on Haryk’s end- convincing the council and Headmaster Asura that Roz was his great- grand niece, and that the reason they hadn’t been able to attend the academy earlier was due to health complications- and Roz was thankfully able to present all they had learned to the Headmaster.

The test had started off with the spells. Healing spells on a rubber cadaver, ice spells on an intentionally lit fire, growth spell on a wilting potted sunflower. Those all had been easy, and Roz had been met with applause, which surprised them, but they still bowed out of respect and nearly knocked their plain purple hat off of their head.

The second half was potions. Roz had an hour and twenty clicks to brew a potion of regeneration, slowness, and water breathing, then have members of the councils test them. The only hiccup in their performance had been the actual hiccups the slowness potion had given as an after effect, but Haryk had reassured them later that they didn’t dock for minor side effects like hiccups, or Aeor forbid, changing color.

And the final portion had been the one Roz had been dreading the most- the written portion. They had forty clicks on the history of Crystal Cliffs, forty clicks on math, and the final half hour on an essay on the difference between a spell, a curse, and a hex. Roz had been in such a rush that morning that they had grabbed red ink instead of black or blue, but the Headmaster himself had been so impressed with their performance so far that he allowed it.

“After all-” He had chuckled. “My own prodigy often writes her papers in purple ink.”

When they left the academy that day, they barely had the time to be nervous. All they wanted to do was flop into bed and nap through the weekend, which Haryk had thankfully allowed them to do, only waking them up for meals and to take a shower.

And now here they were, waiting for the letter that would determine the rest of their future from here on out. That letter would hold the answer to whether or not they had been accepted into the academy.

Haryk had gone to the post office to get the mail, which meant Roz was all alone with their nerves. They were half tempted to charm themself relaxed, but the last time they had tried to do that they wound up with fur coating their shoulders, eyes, and cheeks, because apparently in their mind, the most relaxed thing they could think of was a sloth.

The sound of the record they had placed onto the record player just an hour ago had just turned to white noise, the melody doing nothing for their rising blood pressure. It might have been making their nerves worse actually- why did they think Mellohi was a good choice for nerve calming?

They walked over to their record player and raised the needle, the record skipping once before the song abruptly stopped. The discs spinning slowed down enough for Roz to pluck it out and slide it back into its protective sleeve. They tucked it back into its proper place among their wooden crate of records, and plucked out one they figured was much more suited for relaxation.

It was almost an instant relief when they set the needle down on Otherside.

Now that was something they could relax to.

Roz sat down on their bed, sinking into the plush blankets, and resisted the urge to start pacing again. They flopped down onto their back and stared up at all the folds in the canopy, just like they had when they first claimed this room as theirs, before they had even met Haryk.

They had grown a lot in the past two years, and they could barely recognize themselves some days.

The change was gradual, but noticeable when it was all tied together. Roz had started shaving their stubble, they had let their hair grow out and they now tied it back in high ponytails, and their freckles had lightened from being up in the snowy mountains. Then their wardrobe began to change seamlessly. They had traded leather jackets for sweater vests, sandals for loafers, sunglasses for a prescription lens, and ripped jeans for khakis. But what Roz was most happy about was the soft weight they had begun to gain back.

They were still a little rough around the edges, that wasn’t going to change any time soon, but they had come a long way from being a scraggly runaway who’d probably kill a man over a can of beans- at least in their eyes.

When they looked in the mirror, they no longer saw a reflection of who they were expected to be, but who they wanted to be.

And right now they wanted to be someone who wasn’t a nervous wreck.

Their leg bounced up and down, and they were almost convinced time had been slowed down purposefully, just to screw with them.

Or maybe they had been worrying all morning and had forgotten to take their ADHD meds, which was a very real possibility. But now they were too comfortable to get up and take their meds.

That was another thing Haryk had gotten for them in their time with him. ADHD meds, a pair of gold rimmed glasses on a chain, and a knee brace, which they found themselves wearing more and more as they slowly accepted they actually needed the aid.

It had taken a lot of time for Roz to trust Haryk’s judgment on these things- to trust him general, really.

But day by day he managed to prove he was everything Pierce Scarlett, their father, wasn’t. He was patient, and could take a joke, and wanted nothing more than to see Roz thrive like any good teacher. He recognized that spark of potential in them, and was excited to teach them whatever he could before the semester started- and he was sure Roz would be in his classroom by September.

“Don’t think I’ll go easy on ye just because you’re me student.” He had said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Wouldn’t ask you to go easy on me, old man.”

Haryk had taught them everything. Starting from the spells you’re meant to learn in kindergarten, to the more advanced spells that even he had trouble with on days when his hands slightly trembled. He worked with them if they got stumped, and if they found a topic that fascinated them, then the rest of the lessons were put on hold while he scoured his library for books on the topic.

That’s how Roz found out which spells they were the best at.

Music spells.

Music spells were some of the most complicated, since to master them, you needed both magical and musical knowledge. You had to wave your wand, or staff, or sword like a conductor's wand, and hit the notes just right to get the desired effect. Even one note out of place could turn the whole spell on its head, and the effects could range from comical to dangerous.

And they were Roz’s favorite.

They didn’t know what their life had been without music, just like they didn’t know what their life had been without magic.

And to find something that combined the two things they loved the most? It was no wonder they had read every book, poured over text, even went to attend a lecture at Crystal Cliffs by one of Haryk's colleagues. Only six other people showed up, and Roz had asked the majority of the questions.

They hoped that music was a class they could take. An elective, that’s what they were called, right? They’d like to learn how to play the guitar. Or the banjo, the banjo could be quite fun.

Otherside began to skip, but Roz didn’t bother sitting up to switch it to the B side, just letting the disc replay.

With the way their mind was wandering off, Roz was now sure they had forgotten to take their meds. They glanced at the clock on the wall, and their eyes bugged out of their head, seeing the time.

Only ten clicks had passed since they last checked the clock.

Maybe time was fucking with them.

Roz groaned and threw their arm over their eyes, blocking out the light seeping in from the stained glass window. Bright red and gold prisms bounced off the walls and floor, but Roz was too busy wallowing to admire it.

When they heard the door open they shot straight up like a bullet, and threw the door open so hard they nearly ripped it off the hinges.

Again.

Without a second thought they began to rush down the stairs as fast their slippered feet could take them. They were half tempted to cast levitation, but didn’t want to wind up floating themselves up to the ceiling again.

“Is it here?!” They exclaimed as soon as they touched foot in the living room.

“Child, I haven’t even taken me coat off!” Haryk called from the foyer.

Roz bounced on their toes, and would’ve started chewing their nails again if they didn’t have a bloody bandage of a reminder for why they shouldn’t. They bounced until Haryk walked through the door frame, holding a pile of letters under his arm.

“I believe this is what ye be waiting for?”

Roz squealed and plucked the white envelope from Haryk.

They turned it around in their hands, examining every inch just to make sure it was the real deal.

The emerald green calligraphy with their name, well what the council thought was their name anyway, putting Barclay instead of Scarlett for their last name. The purple wax seal with the image of an amethyst shard etched into it. The singular stamp with a doe on it. All of it screamed that this was the authentic letter Roz had been waiting what felt like their whole life for.

So why haven’t they torn it open yet?

Haryk put a gentle hand on their shoulder.

“Go on, Roz.” He said gently.

“...What if I didn’t get in?”

“Then we just try again.”

Roz took a deep breath that rocked them from their diaphragm to their skull, and with a squeak, they broke the wax seal off with the swift opening of the letter. They squeezed their eyes shut, as if expecting the letter to detonate, but as expected, it did not, because it was simply that. A letter.

They opened it back up, and wanted to groan when they saw the letter was folded up not once, but three times. Why all the anticipation? Why not just get it over with?

The envelope dropped to the ground as Roz took the letter in their hands and unfolded it.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

‘We at Crystal Cliffs are proud to welcome you, Roz Barclay, to Crystal Cliffs Academy for Magic Users. Below is your class schedule based on your exam results and your dorm number, as well as the name of your room mate. Your supply list will be sent to you separately.

Schedule of Roz Barclay-

Breakfast Serving from: 5:00 to 7:45 A.M

Potions 102: 8 A.M
Magic and the Musical Arts: 8:45 A.M
History of Empires: 9:30 A.M
Physical Education: 10:15 A.M
Study Hall: 11:05 A.M

Lunch Serving from: 12:00 PM to 1:15 PM

Arithmetic: 1:30 PM
Introduction to Mermish: 2:05 PM
Spells Level Seven: 2:55 PM
Introduction to Clairvoyance: 3:30 PM

Dinner Serving from: 5:00 PM to 7:45 PM

Dorm Room: Tower 111
Roommate: Gemini Andromeda Tay

Welcome to Crystal Cliffs Academy. We expect great things from you, Roz Barclay.

Asura Grandeel, The 34th Headmaster of Crystal Cliffs Academy .’

Every moment of suffering, of pain, of hardship that Roz had endured was worth it, since it all had led up to this very moment:

The moment Roz knew they were going to become a wizard.